Dad Shock
by Iona Nineve
Summary: Ichabod's experiences facing his first Father's Day. Set in the week following the discovery that Katrina had had a child.


**Author's Note: Sorry about how out of date this is. Also there may be some canon mistakes, its been awhile since I saw the episode. Still I hope you enjoy it. Please feel free to comment.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own these wonderful characters.**

Dad Shock

"What is Father's Day?" Ichabod Crane inquired of Abby, indicating the next day's notation on the calendar.

"It's a celebration for dads, sort of a thank you for everything they've done and just being there,."

"I see." He responded wistfully. Less than a week earlier Ichabod had discovered that the title of 'Father' applied to him. He walked calmly and silently into the next room. A frustrated roar, followed by a loud hard thud, came from the room. Hurrying to see what had happened Abby found Ichabod on the shifted couch, nursing his foot, and a knife sunk deep into the coffee table.

"Feel better?"

"No." He answered angrily. "How could Katrina not have told me? Am I mistaken in thinking that I should've been told? Instead, two-hundred-and-thirty years later I receive the knowledge from you. She couldn't even have had the decency to give me the visions. Now tell me this if you were pregnant," she raised her eyebrows, "theoretically, the first person you would tell would be the father, right?" Abby nodded, allowing Ichabod to continue on his righteous outburst. She couldn't help but recall his enraged paternal rampage she had witnessed at the abandoned house a few days before. "I would think she'd tell me before I went out and died. Unless, of course, it isn't mine." For a long while he said nothing, head in hands. She was about to say something, when he broke his silence. "Damn!" he exclaimed, emphasizing it with a hard fist blow to the table top. "I don't know who I'm mad at, Katrina or myself. What's worst is that I never knew him and I never shall. I do not know what happened to him, what his life was like, what kind of man he became. I don't even know what happened historically in his lifetime. Or what he looked like. Whatever fate befell Katrina, I am sure she had no control in the matter. With myself dead in the war, who knows what could have become of the boy. I wasn't there to protect either of them. Quite the father I turned out to be." With this deprecating statement he finished. "Would you please leave?"

"Can I-"

"Please!"

"Okay." She started to leave, briefly resting a comforting hand on his barely trembling shoulder. On her way out a framed picture caught her eye and a sudden idea struck her. Picking up the very old painted double portrait she left the cabin and headed toward the police station. As she closed the door, just as it was about to latch she heard a suppressed sob.

At the station she made her way over to the facial artist, traditionally used to draw witness descriptions. However she had a different plan.

"What a cute couple. Who are they, some distant relatives?" Judy, the sketch artist, commented holding the portrait of Ichabod and Katrina.

"Yeah, something like that. it's a Father's Day gift for a friend."

"Well, I'm up for that. What do you want me to do?"

"I was wondering if you could draw what their son would look like? The couple lost their son at a young age."

"That's so sad! I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Judy."

"No problem. Especially for this," she said taking a glance at the portrait.

"Can I stop off and get it tomorrow morning?"

"Absolutely. With something like this, I won't be sleeping well tonight."

"Well, I didn't mean to do that. See you you tomorrow. And thanks again." When Abby got home her first objective was to look up historical events within Ichabod's son's lifetime.

Having been up nearly all night herself, Abby returned to the station. "Morning, Judy."

"It's morning?" she answered with a joking tone. "I finished them."

"Them?'

"Yeah, I kinda went overboard." She pulled out a penciled colored drawing of a four or five year old. "I did what you asked for for and started with this. Isn't he adorable? But then I guess I got into the spirit of the holiday, and then painted this." She then pulled out a page sized canvas. Painted on it in exact accuracy was the likeness of Ichabod and Katrina, in between them was the boy from the drawing at the age of nine or ten. "While I was doing that I realized that the boy had all the makings of being a very attractive young man, so I added this one." Next she pulled out a small thick paper with a wonderfully done pastel of an eight-teen year old young man seated cooly in an elaborate wooden chair.

"These are amazing, Judy! You did all this in one nigt?"

"Yeah, one night during which I didn't sleep a wink. Oh, I nearly forgot, here's the original. "She handed Abby the framed painting. So they're what you wanted?"

"They're more than I could have hoped for. He's gonna love them!"

"You should probably be going now then."

"Yes, I should. Thank you, you're wonderful. I owe you like five now!"

"Go!"

"Right." Abby left, carrying with her the drawings. Arriving at the cabin, where Ichabod still sat disheartened on the couch, she left the drawings near the table and returned the painting to its place. "Crane?"

"Yes, Lieutenant." he answered morosely.

"Happy Father's Day." His shoulders sagged noticeably. "Ok, I'm gonna say something I wanted to say yesterday. I think you would make a wonderful father. I've had experience with bad fathers; and all that stuff you felt guilty about last night, a bad father wouldn't even think of any of it. The fact that you care at all about what happened to him shows that you're a good father. One that I would be glad to call my own. But you're a little young." She added the last sentence jokingly, hoping to add a light note that might bring forth a response from her silent companion.

"265 isn't old enough?" He finally spoke.

"I see your point. How about you're my honorary great-great-great-great-grandfather, give or take a few greats." A slight smile appeared on his face, warming it. "There we go, you've cheered up some. And I've got somethings to add to that." She went to the table and returned to the couch with the short stack of drawings. "I had a friend of mine draw these. They're all what your son looked like." She handed him the first drawing of the five year old boy. His fingers gently touched the youthful face which so resembled his own. Next she presented him with the family portrait. He took it with trembling hands. As he gazed at the painting his eyes shimmered with welling tears. In this painting was a window into a life that could have been his. This family was his, what his family could have been if it hadn't been for the horseman of death who seemed so insistant upon bringing about the apocalypse. The boy in the painting had Katrina's eyes and dark hair. Ichabod's throat tightened, and the tears welled to overflowing. He took in a breath tilting back his head up, thankful that Abby looked away at that moment. Waiting until he had composed himself, she brought out the final portrait. He took it with a feeling of sorrowful curiosity building up in his chest. Looking at the likeness of his son at this age of crossroads. From that point what direction had the boy's life taken? Would he go on to University? Prehaps Oxford? Had British and American bonds healed by that time? Again it struck him that he knew nothing of this boy he'd never held nor seen, and suddenly felt a twinge of envy that Katrina had held their son for however short a time.

"I wish I'd known him." The thought escaped his lips.

"I can't help you know him as a person, but I did put this together." She next brought out the thick packet of paper listing events of history spanning the eighty years from 1778 to 1860. "It's all the history I could find in his lifetime."

He took the packet and lightly perused the first few pages. "Thank you, very much. For everything. You can't imagine how much it means to me." The emotion in his voice was audible, and heartbreaking. All the items lay lovingly cradled in a pile on his lap. It was obvious that these were now his most cherished possessions, a symbol of normality in a world so unknown to him with so many strange dangers.

"Anything for you, Gramps." She said, rising to her feet and brushing shoulder comfortingly. He slowly, gently lifted the items from his lap and placed them to the side. Then he did something she never would have guessed he would do, he hugged her.


End file.
